The Orange Boys: Nairobi 2012

This was something I felt I needed to write to perhaps to give a voice to the voiceless and to question myelf and my own motives!! Since writing this I managed to find some old children's clothes and with the help of my househelp and a few Matatu drivers give the bag to the Mother. Not sure if it really helped or it made the siutaiton worse - as I now see many more children on the side of the road!!!

The Little Orange Boys

I see them everyday sometimes with their mother sometimes playing nearby. It should be a happy scene but I dread the moment I approach them as I drive up the brow of the busy road to the junction. You could mistakenly think they are twins as they look very similar but if you look closely it’s because they are both Orange.  I love the red soil of Kenya it’s very distinct and makes me think of Africa but it will also now remind me of these little boys forced to play by the side of the road. They aren’t twins but they are always covered in the red dirt. Their clothes are identical, orange, their faces and hair are, orange – they are the little orange boys. Has anyone else noticed them? Or are we middle class so set on getting across the busy highway that we don’t see them?

The little orange boys play on.

Their mother sits on the edge of the road at the junction between the two busy roads. She doesn’t beg but is always talking. I saw her shout at the matatu drivers the other day but now realise she was talking to herself. People say she is mad. She used to have a baby with her which she would breastfeed or keep strapped to her back. I hadn’t noticed he was gone until someone told me he had died. The mother had kept him strapped to her back for 3 days until finally the police had to tie her down and take the baby away – she had told them it had died so what was the problem?

The little orange boys play on.

They play in the road, on the verge, in the mud and even on the central reservation. There is always a jam at the top of the road and the cars flow back down the hill. The big lorries take ages to climb it and churn out thick black smoke.

This is the little orange boy’s playground.

As I drive back from work I get a sickening feeling that I am approaching their spot. More recently I can feel my eyes welling up; I think a side effect of being a Mother. But what do I do? I strain to see if I can see them, I want to see what they are doing. I saw one of the little boys sitting down on the side of the road one morning while his mother walked off down the road he was crying he eyes out. All sorts of stories of what had happened came in my head and I felt terrible. They live just down the bottom of the hill. You can see where their ‘place’ is by the clothes that are hanging out on the bushes by the side of the road. They climb the hill in the morning, play at the top and walk down again at night. This is their lives. But what do I do?

The little orange boys play on.

I have been thinking about giving them some toys. But will the mother try and sell them? I thought about trying to give them some food – but would I be able to do that in time before I am hooted by the cars behind who are busy getting to work and want to cross the highway. I thought perhaps I can spend one day talking to them but would the mother shout at me? What would she think? What would all the matatu drivers think?  I have thought a lot......

And the little orange boys play on.